Great Maria (17 page)

“I trust you, my lord. I ask only that you keep to the road and treat my people kindly.”

Theobald smiled at her. “You are as gracious as your lord. How does his fighting go? We have heard, of course, of the oaths taken in Iste. Fitz-Michael is angry over it, you know—some of the men who swore forced oaths to your lord are barons of the Duke.”

Maria shrugged her shoulders. “I will tell him you mentioned it.” She remembered the little boy Richard had stolen away from Theobald.

“He is a cunning man, your husband.” Theobald drank his wine. Ralf took his cup away. “But I think he overreaches himself, attacking the Saracens in the mountains. He should be content with Iste.”

Maria drank another sip of her wine. “I know nothing of it, my lord, except it is our Christian duty to fight the Saracens.”

“Yes. Ah, yes. Crusades are the pilgrimages of the young. If I myself were young—” He puffed a little, spoke of the time when to ride from Occel to the Cave of the Virgin was a dangerous penance. His fingers moved without pausing, pleating his sleeve, rubbing over the chased surface of the cup. He made a joke, and she caught herself laughing. His face smoothed out. Maria smiled at him, trying to charm him.

“Your lord’s brother, Roger,” Theobald said sleekly. “The finest knight in the south, some men say—men who should know. I have never had the honor to encounter him, either at parley or in the field.”

“Roger is a hero,” Maria said with pride. “He is an arrow of God.”

“And the older brother, William—quite another sort, we had some dealings, he and I—he too has taken the Cross?”

“Ye—”

Maria bit off the word. Ruffled, she saw she had told him what he wanted to know, and she said, “William told me somewhat of his talks with you.”

Theobald smiled at her. He rubbed his upper lip with his forefinger. In the cart, Stephen woke and called out, and Eleanor quieted him. Maria looked Theobald in the face.

“I wonder you should be going off to the shrine, though, so near to the fall quarterday.”

Theobald shifted on his stool, still favoring her with his sleek smile. “Earlier in the summer I was busy elsewhere. Had I the leisure, I should have come at once, child.”

“I wish you could stay on then,” she said, “but you will want to be back in your own demesne before the quarterday, won’t you?”

Theobald’s smile broadened. “I understand you.” He got to his feet. “You have been most courteous to me, I shall not forget your favor.”

He bowed to her; she gave him her hand, and he kissed it. He said, “Let me hope, child, that while you are mistress of Birnia, you will think of me as a dependable friend.”

“I shall, my lord, with many thanks.”

He made another bow to her, and with his servant carrying his stool started away. He swung wide off his track to look over the other campsite and its dying fire. Maria sat down again, angry. She felt like a fool for letting him know where all three brothers were.

“Ralf,” she said. “We shall go home tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Send a messenger to Jean, tell him that we are coming. Put a watch on Theobald’s camp.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Maria walked up and down between the cart and the fire. She wondered how much Theobald could know of the garrison in Birnia—if her pretense of strength might not trick her more than him. He took her lightly; she had marked it in his tone of voice. Creeping into the back of the cart, she lay down next to Eleanor, pulled the blankets over her, and tried to settle into sleep.

***

From the Rood Oak, she traveled south toward the Tower of Birnia, while Theobald and his forty men took the high road toward the shrine. Of the knights in her escort, Maria sent all but Ralf to keep on Theobald’s heels and watch him. Ralf she took with her.

For most of the day, the cart crossed the fens, yellow and stinking in the late summer heat, the stretches of tall, stalky grass broken here and there by a scummed pool ringed in cattails. Twice they had to stop, unload the cart, and use Maria’s mare and Ralf’s horse to help drag the wheels up out of the mire.

Eleanor prayed loudly all day long. Stephen, tired of the cart and tired of traveling, cried or nagged or fretted. No one else spoke. They saw no sign of other people through the whole day.

Maria finally took Stephen in front of her on her horse to keep him quiet. Not a breath of the wind moved the air. The fen stretched flat and unchanging around them, as if they made no progress at all. The sun climbed to the zenith of the sky and dropped down into the west. At last they reached the river, winding thick with weed, and forded it.

Here the fields stood shoulder-high in ripening grain and beans. Marigold studded them to keep away bugs. In the last of the twilight, the serfs were walking home from their fields. Maria and her people camped beside the road at the crossroads.

The following noon, they reached the town of Birnia and drove past it to the Tower. Jean was on the wall, his face running with sweat in the afternoon heat, and when they rolled into the ward, Robert raced down the outer stair of the Tower to meet them.

“Mama,” he said, before she could speak. “I am in command here, now, you must obey me in all things.”

“Oh,” Maria said. “Another one of you.” She slid down from her mare; a groom led it away.

“And you must tell Eleanor,” Robert said. “And make her obey me.”

Maria patted his cheek. In the cart, Eleanor was giving everyone orders. Stephen had gotten away from her and was lowering himself carefully down the high cart wheel to the ground. His long arms swinging at his sides, Jean came across the ward.

“Is there any word from Richard?” she asked him.

“Nothing, my lady. Will you come in? The sun is so bright out here.”

Maria followed him toward the stair. Eleanor was directing the serving girls here and there with their baggage.

“I sent out all the other men but one to ride the road while Theobald is here,” Jean said. “I thought it best to let him see as many armed men as possible, so that he may think we are strong.”

Stephen on his round legs raced across the ward toward her. His aim was off, and he ran headlong into Robert instead. His brother thrust him aside so hard the little boy sat down with a thump. Wheeling back to Maria, Robert grabbed hold of her arm.

“Mama, you must—”

Stephen let out a howl. Maria bent to pick him up. To Robert, she said, “I will not obey you unless you are worthy. See how you made your brother cry.” She kissed Stephen’s grimy face. With Jean just behind her, she went up the stair to the doorway into the hall.

“Mama!” Robert shrieked, but she ignored him.

In the hall the air was cool. A serving girl was sweeping the ashes back into the hearth. Maria sent her for water and linen, so that she could wash her face. Jean came up before her, his expression bland. She sank down into a chair.

“You think I was rash to meet him there,” she said.

“No, so long as you are here again,” he said in a mild voice. “What passed between you?”

The maid came back with a basin of water, and Maria splashed her face and dried it. Robert raced in to hold the linen for her.

“Mama, I am your knight now.”

“Yes,” she said, and patted his head. “Sit, Jean. Robert—”

The boy had already gone down the hall for a stool. When Jean was sitting, Robert leaned on his shoulder, and the old knight put his arm around the boy and smiled at him.

Maria repeated her interview with Theobald to Jean. “So he knows that Richard and his brothers are all in the mountains, far from here. I was stupid.”

Jean grunted. “Yet he must be unsure of us. He would not have passed the chance to take you prisoner unless he thought we could do him some damage.” He scratched his jaw, eying her. “That was clever, that with the campfire. That may serve, against a cautious man like this Count.”

“We must have spies in his county, to tell us if he calls up his army.”

Jean nodded at her. “I have arranged that, my girl, you do not have to tell me my work. But if he decides to attack us, there is nothing we can do.”

“Something will happen.”

Jean regarded her a moment. Deep pleasant lines marked the corners of his mouth; his eyes were clear pale blue. “Something never happens.”

Maria gestured irritably at him to go. “I will talk to you later. Robert, go—”

“You can’t give me orders. I am the commander here. Jean, tell her.”

A hot answer sizzled in her throat, but he stood so straight, as if he were trying to be taller, that she had to smile. “Well, then,” she said, “if it please you, would you ask Eleanor to see to our dinner? Thank you.”

Robert made a salute to her and ran off. She sat alone in the hall, her mind on Theobald, his clothes and his restless hands. Two pages came in, boys of Robert’s size, carrying a sling full of firewood: hostages from Iste. There were twelve hostages, ranging from a boy no older than Stephen to a young man. Richard had given her everything in Birnia except what she needed. She knew that was unjust. She got up and went to her room to change her travel-stained clothes.

Eighteen

Theobald lingered at the shrine, bribing all the monks. Maria began to worry that to challenge her he would stay past the quarterday, but at last he went back to his city of Occel. The quarterday passed. For many days thereafter she worked constantly, getting the goods stored away in the cramped spaces of the Tower. One morning, while she was overseeing the kitchen knaves stack up kegs of salted meat, a page ran into the storeroom to tell her a messenger had come.

Maria sent the knaves away to their dinner and the page for a cup of wine, and she went out to the ward. The messenger stood beside his steaming horse in the shade of the wall, just below the gate. His grimy face belonged to one of Ponce Rachet’s men.

“Joscelyn,” she said. “What news from the East Tower?” The page dashed up to her with the cup of wine, and she gave it to the messenger.

He did not drink. He said, “Lady, the news is bad. My lord Richard has been captured by the Saracens in the mountains.”

“Captured.”

The page was standing a little way off, watching her. Heavily she gestured to him to go. She lifted her face toward the messenger’s.

“Where? What happened? Is he alive?”

“I don’t know, lady.”

“Drink,” she said.

The messenger lifted the cup to salute her and gulped down the wine. She clasped her hands together. She struggled to make herself think calmly.

“Have they asked for ransom?”

The messenger held out the cup to her. Around his mouth the dirt was washed away, leaving a circle of clean skin.

“Lady, I know nothing of it. If I knew anything—” He spread his big hands. “He was taken alive. That’s all we know. Ponce Rachet says if you are attacked, you shall come to the East Tower. Don’t try to stand here.”

Maria licked her lips. Obviously he believed, and Ponce Rachet believed, that Richard was dead. When Theobald heard of it he would certainly attack her. She said, “Go get something to eat in the kitchen. Please, for my favor, say nothing of this to anybody.”

“I wish I had not had to say it to you.” He led his horse away. The oldest of her hostages from Iste was loitering near the stable door. He came up to take the knight’s mount. Maria went up to the hall.

Robert had gone off somewhere with Jean. By the hearth, a serving girl was teaching a page to lay out the fire. Maria sat down at her spinning wheel, but she could not spin. Her hands shook like an old woman’s. While she sat trying to calm herself down, Eleanor walked in.

“The purple yarn is dry,” she called, “and I think there is enough of it to do the border of the new tapestry.” She came up beside Maria, ready to talk of the design. Maria made herself speak normally and listen to what Eleanor said.

Jean came into the hall, Robert on his heel with a string of questions about horses. The old knight answered him absently. Coming up behind Eleanor, he said, “The messenger says he has already spoken to you.”

Maria nodded. “Yes, there was—there has been a battle.” She got up, searching for a good lie. “They have lost ground—they were beaten back.”

The gray knight squinted. “A battle. Where?”

“Mama,” Robert said, before she had to answer. “Is Papa well?”

“Yes,” she said. “Papa is safe.”

Robert leaned on her knees. “Is Uncle Roger safe?”

“Yes,” Maria said. Jean was watching her steadily. She sent Eleanor away with a word. She held her voice even. “Jean, will you talk to the messenger tomorrow, before he goes back? Ponce Rachet should know we caught that thief.” They had run down a robber on the road to the East Tower.

“And Uncle William,” Robert asked. “Is he well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like Uncle William but I like Uncle Roger best.”

Jean fingered his stubbled chin. “Robo,” he said. “Go bring me something wet. And your lady mother too.”

Robert ran off down the room. Jean dropped his voice. “What is this about a battle? What is wrong?”

Maria stood up. “The Saracens have taken Richard prisoner.”

Jean’s face seemed to close up. At the other end of the room, Robert lifted the ewer, intent on what he was doing. The old knight took hold of Maria’s hand.

“I’m sorry. Have they asked any ransom?”

Maria shook her head. Robert brought a cup carefully across the room to Jean. He had filled it overfull; the wine trembled on the brim. Jean backed away from it, letting go of Maria’s hand. “No. Serve your lady mother first, who loved you first.”

Maria took the cup. She had to force herself to drink the swallow of wine. Robert went back for the other cup.

“If Theobald attacks us,” Jean said, “we cannot fight him. If he strikes we must retreat, he would take Birnia at once.”

The wine was whole. She drank another long taste of it. “I will not lose Birnia.”

Jean’s pale eyes were steady. “It’s all to no use anyway if he’s dead.”

Maria lifted the cup and sipped the strong red wine.

***

Jean took all the knights to the border, to watch for Theobald. Maria put her pages out to stand guard on the walls. They had less work to do, anyway, since the knights were gone. Robert made them all into an army and tirelessly ordered them around. Maria could not sleep. She took to drinking down a full cup of wine before she went to bed. When Eleanor saw it she gave her a look acid with disapproval.

“I need something,” Maria said sharply. “If I must go to bed alone.”

“You have ever been so temperate.” Eleanor bent over the looking glass, plucking the stray dark hair on her upper lip. “Yet you are so shrewish now, I cannot help but be disappointed in you.”

“God’s blood.”

“You ought not to take oaths before children.”

Maria prayed for Richard. She had heard all her life what Saracens did to their prisoners. Thinking about him made her want to cry. For some diversion, she went down into the town. Before she had seen Iste, she had not understood towns, but now she made use of the market place and the craftsmen’s shops. The people there knew her, pointing her out as if she were a talking dog. She was gay as a new bride, until Eleanor rushed up to her, her face glowing from the sprint down the street, and said, “The priest just told me that talk has it Richard is dead.”

Maria’s stomach shrank to a knot. “Where? Who told you that?”

“The priest, I said. Father Gibertetto. He says everyone is talking about it, all over town.”

“Ah.” Maria hitched up her basket on her arm and called to Stephen, who was watching the drunken men stagger out of the wineshop. “Let’s go find out what they actually know.”

The old priest begged her forgiveness. “I never meant you to hear it,” he said, with an evil look at Eleanor. “I would speak nothing to your hurt, my dear lady.” His watering eyes probed at her. “We shall say Masses for his soul.”

“Don’t,” Maria said, “he is not dead yet.” She went out onto the porch of the church, where she had left Stephen. Taking him up in her arms, she went across the market place and down the street toward the inn, where she had left her horse. Eleanor walked beside her.

“Maria—”

“Don’t talk.”

They went into the innyard. When he saw them, the ostler climbed down off the fence and went to get their horses. His widowed daughter came out the door of the inn.

“Good morning,” she said. “Come inside and have a mug of cider.”

Maria shook her head. “I will, the next time I am here.”

Large and soft-fleshed as a sweet cake, the ostler’s daughter crossed the yard to her side. “Oh,” she said, “they are talking it all over town, I suppose, about Dragon dying. Come inside, it’s cool out here.”

“Don’t go in there,” Eleanor whispered. “She is the worst gossip in the town.”

Maria stepped away from her, rubbed by her tone of voice. “Go back, if you will—take Stephen, see that he takes a nap.” She walked across the yard toward the inn.

The ostler’s daughter caught up with her at the door. She said, “This girl was not with you, when you were in Birnia the other time.”

“She is my husband’s cousin.”

They crossed the inn’s plank-walled common room and went down into the kitchen. It was above ground, with windows, so that the sunlight poured in and turned the steams and smoke in the air yellow as butter. A knave was kneading bread dough at the table. The room smelled of yeast. The ostler’s daughter took Maria into the corner near the ovens and brought her a cup of warm cider and a dish of clotted cream.

“If you tell me it is not true,” the ostler’s daughter said, “I will believe you. These people put me by, they love rumor.”

Maria ate a spoonful of the cream. The fat woman picked up a basket from the floor and took out a great piece of needlework.

“I won’t lie to you,” Maria said. “It may be true, but I am—I—we have heard nothing for certain either way. It is just a rumor to me, too.”

The ostler’s daughter crossed herself. “God have mercy on you. I went for three days not knowing if my husband was dead or alive.” Her fingers stitched the long green stem of a flower. “But if you know so little, how have these tongues come to busy themselves with it? Have you thought of that?”

Maria frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“I heard this tale of Dragon dying from Ramkin, the charcoal burner. How would Ramkin know such a thing—a man who lives all but two days of the month in the forest?
Fen people keep secrets.
He heard it here, in Birnia town, from someone who wishes you ill.”

Maria put down the empty bowl, her eyes intent on the woman’s face. “Who?”

The woman smiled placidly down at her needlework. “Fulbert, the butcher. He sells hides to the tanneries in Occel, he is in Theobald’s pay.”

Maria said nothing, amazed. The ostler’s daughter stitched the outline of a leaping lion.

“I know every secret in Birnia.” Her voice was sweet with pride.

“Even mine,” Maria said. “What are you making?”

“A vestment for old Gibertetto.” She held it up. Among flowers and leafy stalks, the signs of the Evangelists stood at the four tips of a cross. “The secret I do not know is who told Fulbert, when there has been no one into Birnia from the south in more than a month.”

She took the work in hand again and stitched yellow curls for the lion’s mane. Maria folded her own hands in her lap, trying to find sense in it: the charcoal burner, the butcher, the tanneries at Occel, and the rumor that linked them all. She said, “Someone in my castle is betraying me.”

The needle tacked down one end of a curl. “Perhaps.”

“You would not have told me this,” Maria said, “if you did not intend to help me.”

The ostler’s daughter lifted her round face. “I will do what I can.”

***

Theobald marched an army up to the border near the Rood Oak, but Ponce Rachet sent eighteen knights from the East Tower, and one night with their help Jean set fire to the meadows where Theobald was camped and, in the panic and excitement, ran off most of the Count’s horses and killed several of his men. Theobald retreated. Jean and his old knights fell back to the King’s Road. When Theobald pursued, they wheeled around behind him and shadowed him down the fen, picking off his sentries and scouts. But then Ponce Rachet’s men had to go back to the East Tower, to meet some emergency there.

Maria heard all this from three of the old knights, who staggered back to the castle suffering a variety of ailments. She and Eleanor bandaged their wounds and dosed them for their arthritis and their bad backs. Outside on the wall, Robert marched the boys around, waving the wooden sword Jean had made for him, while Stephen hurried along behind. Maria watched them from the third-story window. The three knights were asleep in the bed behind her. Eleanor came up beside her.

“Maria,” she said. “You heard them. You must send the children away.”

“I heard. Jean’s crafty, he is beating Theobald.”

“You are mad, Maria—Theobald will shrug him off like a fly, these three cannot fight anymore, two are dead—they say Ponce Rachet’s men are gone. There are only fifteen men left. Theobald has scores of men, he can get more when they die. He—”

“Stop, Eleanor.”

Eleanor turned to look out the window. The boys’ voices piped in the ward below. Robert’s shout overrode them all.

“Is Richard dead?” Eleanor asked.

Maria put her hand on the warm stone of the window sill.

“Don’t you think I would know if my husband were dead?” She turned into the room. “Mind these men. I am going to the town again.”

She took Robert with her to the inn, left him to play in the common room, and joined the ostler’s daughter in the kitchen, where the widow was sewing the horns on Saint Luke’s ox. The two women greeted each other like old friends. The ostler’s daughter made a place for Maria on her bench. Maria smoothed her skirts over her knees.

“Let me see. You are nearly done, you work hard—what is this stitch here?”

The other woman wove her needle through the loops of thread, gathering them into a tight round blossom against the linen. Maria could not follow it. The ostler’s daughter said, “I have shown half the women in Birnia my stitches, and they try and try but turn out ugly scraggly work, and in the end come to me to make them their pretties.”